


Empire Line

by redsunsaint



Category: The Expanse (TV), The Expanse Series - James S. A. Corey
Genre: Angst, F/M, Lovers To Enemies, Unresolved Tension, ish
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:01:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24533497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redsunsaint/pseuds/redsunsaint
Summary: We have / beautiful views of the / weather / coming for us.Five times Sadavir Errinwright did not kiss Chrisjen Avasarala and one time he did.
Relationships: Chrisjen Avasarala/Sadavir Errinwright
Comments: 3
Kudos: 13





	Empire Line

**Author's Note:**

> I’m playing a bit fast and loose with canon timelines, and this is effectively a mashup of book and show canons, plus me pulling a lot of stuff out of my ass. Either let me take this artistic liberty or move along.

**1.**   
  


As much as Chrisjen Avasarala preferred to work in the shadows, it must be said that there was not a single door that she hesitated to open. Call it the residue of a childhood spent in houses too big for a family. When the door to his parents’ guest bedroom swung open unannounced and she glided in on a swirl of vibrant silks, Sadavir Errinwright could not find it in himself to be surprised.

“Isn’t this bad luck?” he murmured half-heartedly, before turning back to the mirror.

“You’re not the bride, are you? And I’m hardly your groom. I think we’ll be fine.”

He watched her reflection approach him, and by the time she appeared at his shoulder, he had nearly managed to convince his pulse to stop racing. She met his eyes in the mirror, a small smirk at the corners of her mouth.

“Are you ready?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” he sighed. “Twelve years of engagement… If I’d put it off any longer, my mother would have disowned me, I think.”

Her head tilted, lips twitched.

“I meant for the _sehra_ , dumbass,” she said, gently. “And she wouldn’t have.”

“No. I guess not.”

Chrisjen turned her eyes away from his. She pushed him towards the bed, as the room lacked a chair, and went to retrieve the headdress from the top of the dresser where it had been unboxed earlier that day.

In another age, the room would have been full of family and friends, crowding in, wishing him well. He would have had a sister, and she would be fixing the turban on his head proudly while his mother tried not to cry. Instead, he had bathed alone, dressed alone. His sister was his childhood home, paid for by a single child tax incentive.

And now, as his mother toiled in the kitchen—fretting that there would not be enough food, that it would not be done on time, that, after all the trouble it took to procure, the lamb would not turn out quite right—Chrisjen came to claim the vacant role of sister, although he could not offer her an audience beyond himself. 

_And God, of course_ , his mother’s voice chided him.

And God, perhaps, he allowed.

These were gestures to tradition, as much as the wedding was merely a gesture to marriage.

Chrisjen returned with the ornamental headdress in her hands and stepped in toward his knees.

“Shall I recite a prayer for you?” she asked innocently, her eyes dancing. Sadavir shot her what must have been a wry look. She laughed.

“Okay, no prayers,” she conceded, and began fastening the turban on his head, pinning the beaded veil on. He let himself be lulled by the gentle tug of her hands at work and breathed shallowly. The aromatic warmth and spice of the kitchen had clung to her, layered over her own smell—cardamom, almond, and something milky.

“Thank—” he began, a false start. After clearing his throat, he tried again, “Thanks for doing this. My mom’s been going a bit overboard with the whole thing. I haven’t been able to say no to her, you know? Since this is the only time she gets to marry a kid off.”

“Oh, stop it. No need for thanks. You know I love your mother.” She rested a hand on his shoulder. “And, although it seems unlucky to say so, you never know. There could be another wedding in your future.”

“I think that’s unlikely.”

“Oh? True love, is it?” Chrisjen asked, carefully.

Angry embarrassment landed hot and heavy like an iron rod at the pit of his stomach. His eyes shot up, finding hers between the strands of beads now covering his face. There was something in her gaze he could not pin down.

And then she reached down, her hand laced with delicate patterns of henna, and drew the veil to the side. Her fingers brushed against his forehead and the heat drained from him, leaving only a familiar tired ache.

“I have overstepped. I’m sorry,” she offered diplomatically.

“No, you’re not.”

“No. I am not.”

Sadavir rose from the edge of the bed. Her hand fell away and her face tilted up to his new height, but she didn’t retreat. He scanned her features, lingering on her dark, wide eyes, conflict pulling at the corners of them, and then the shape of her lips—these, too, pursed lightly in ambivalence.

The old realization resurfaced anew. He would do anything for her, if she asked.

In the quiet of the room, he could hear her draw in a shaky breath. She didn’t say a word.

“Sadavir! Are you nearly ready?” his mother called from down the hall.

He blinked, then moved past her to the door. Chrisjen did not follow.


End file.
